Going Home
by The Goddess Aurora
Summary: Starts where Season 2 left off. After losing someone, picking up the pieces and walking it off is much harder than it should be. Dean, Sam, and Angie try and carry on. Rated for language and adult themes.
1. The Land of the Morning Star

-

Disclaimer:

I do not own Supernatural.

Though, if I did there would be a serious shirt-shortage

and I'd be living in Dean's jacket.

-

Warning:

This chapter contains quite a bit of foul language

and several bad attempts at humor.

Consider yourself warned.

-

- **Prologue** -

The pub was rowdy. It was to be expected considering that one of the most important football games of all time—or at least of that week—was underway. There was a large mass of men with a few women sprinkled throughout, gathered around a TV that barely fit between the floor and ceiling it was so huge, it was pretty much the only modern amenity in the entire place.

In the corner of the room, as far as physically possible from the crazed sports fanatics, sat a lone girl busily typing out a report. Writing in a diary wasn't really her bag of chips, journaling bored her to death, but typing up case reports worked; and it made referencing her past jobs a hell of a lot easier.

A cacophony of groans and bellowed curses bounced off the worn wood walls. Angie figured that the Chadbury Chickens had gotten another penal foul. Not that Angela cared, but the noise almost drowned out the sound of her cell phone's shrill ring. Looking around for a quiet place to take the call, she decided that the loo would be the best choice. Sending a glance to the bartender, a friend of sorts, she left her laptop and work related materials where they lay—knowing Seamus wouldn't let anyone take anything—and dashed into the bathroom.

Flipping open the communication device and sticking a finger in her other ear Angie uttered a flustered, "yeah?" into the receiver. The voice she heard wasn't one she was expecting; actually, on the list of people she'd have guessed, this person was in the bottom five—right down there with her mom, dad, and Jesus.

"Ellen?" Shock colored her voice, and her reflection in the ancient mirror wore the emotion like a mask—eyes wide open, eyebrows comically high on her forehead. A voice rough like the aftertaste of whiskey muttered a few pleasantries before getting to the point of the call.

He was dead, _shit_.

Her heart stuttered and her throat was suddenly blocked. Harnessing every last drop of strength in her body, Angela pushed the pain down into her stomach; letting the anguish fill up the previously empty organ. She felt seriously nauseous.

"I'll be on the next flight out." Ellen tried to be soothing, but it was a wasted effort, the words sounded hollow coming across thousands of miles. A quick goodbye and the sound of a dial tone later and Angie was leaning against the worn tile wall, tears slipping from her eyes with ease that belied the fact that she hadn't cried since she was sixteen.

"_Fuck._" Her head slammed into the cheap beige ceramic, eyes clenching tight, lids fighting against the flood rising up. Feeling out of control, Angie sobbed and tried to grab the reigns, but they were so far out of her reach.

Sinking to the floor, oblivious to the questionable cleanliness, a sister mourned the loss of her brother.

**- Chapter 1** -

- The Land of the Morning Star -

_The wise man said just find your place  
In the eye of the storm  
Seek the roses along the way  
Just beware of the thorns_

I don't get why people are afraid of flying, it doesn't make sense. Statistically a person is more likely to die in a car wreck than a plane crash. The only thing scary about planes is the massive amount of boredom that accompanies them. Transatlantic flights are the breeding grounds of choice for boredom. Some tired popular culture fueled movie is playing in a loop—some crap action flick with the same overdone storyline as a hundred others—and the guy sitting in front of me must think my lap looks comfy, considering the fact that he's practically sleeping in it. Reclining seats are not a good idea when there's less than two feet of space between rows.

Cursing the Wright brothers because I have no idea who designed this jet, I close my book—which lasted only the first three hours and has been read twice, it wasn't all that good the first time. I look around at the rest of the people packed into this tin can, stopping to watch as a little blonde boy smeared something sticky and purple across his mother's cheek.

The guy in front of me, probably an insurance salesman with no consideration for the living breathing person seated beneath him, is snoring and I sincerely wish all my batteries weren't dead—even though I bought like eight packages—including the one in my laptop. I was gonna kill that fuzzy pink bunny if I ever caught his ass.

I'm contemplating Mr. Insurance's bald spot—it kinda looks like an apple, stem and all—when I decide the Captain is my favorite person in the entire world. _The flight is finally fucking over!_ I resist the urge to jump up and shout Hallelujah, but only because the 'Fasten your Seatbelts' sign is on and I'd like to get off as soon as physically possible (is it weird that the unintentional sexual innuendo in my own mind makes me laugh?).

I'm considering whether or not to rent a car and drive to South Dakota, or risk insanity by taking another plane—I was leaning heavily on the car idea—when I catch sight of an old guy holding a sign with my last name on it. It's possible he's a hitchhiker, in an airport, bound West; but considering the fact that I'd know that mustache and redneck-trucker look anywhere, I'm thinking he's my ride.

I smile widely and rush over to likely the only man wearing camo within a fifty mile radius that actually knows how to shoot a gun--Chicago isn't exactly the hunting capital of the world—catching the seasoned hunter off guard with a bear hug that would put Elmira to shame.

"Hey, long time no see," Bobby isn't exactly a small-talk kind of guy, so I let the awkward attempt slide.

"Yeah, been a few years, huh? Elle send you?" His worn trucker cap, which likely sported the name of his salvage yard twenty years ago, bobs in agreement.

"We'll, ah, grab your baggage and head on out to the truck." We begin to follow a series of arrows that we hope lead to the baggage claim area.

"You still driving the same beater?" I get a glare for my insult but really, he deserves it. Who in their right mind drives a _Ford_?

"You suggestin' that you wanna walk to my house?" I smile at the threat and shake my head.

"Nah, just making conversation, Mr. Singer."

I get the familiar, 'you make me feel old' huff and headshake.

I shift my messenger bag on my shoulder before I reach down to grab the duffel sliding my way. A rough callused hand snakes out and grabs the worn bag before it makes it within grabbing distance on the carousel. I consider arguing about my ability to carry my own crap, but remember that Bobby's as old as Gramps and thus has a weird Code of Honor—which includes things like manners and proper courting etiquette. Okay, he's not quite as old as Gramps, but he acts like he is. Gramps had an old coon dog, Copper, that reminds me of Bobby; dog was fierce, smart as a fox and twice as tricky, but loyal to a fault.

Seeing Bobby's rusted tow-truck parked amongst all the large shiny sedans and SUV's drives home the fact that I'm back, the change from scooters and compact cars that I could probably fit in my bag makes it all too apparent. I'm fucking back in the United States. It's weird, I expected that coming home would feel…different somehow.

-

It's a short trip across Illinois, through northern Nebraska, into South Dakota. Only takes about six or seven hours before the worn out "Singer Auto Salvage" sign is passing overhead and Bobby's house comes into view. The only things that've changed about the place are the new cars scattered around and the presence of a large dog on the beat up old porch. Last time I was here, that thing was barely a ball of fur.

I hop off the bench seat that made my bum go numb hours ago and stagger to the door, heading with single-minded intent to the bathroom only to be impeded by someone who wanted a hug. _Great, squeeze the girl who has to pee._

I let Ellen wrap me in a hug that smells like cedar, sweet and musky. She pulls me back by my shoulders and does a thorough inspection of my body, starting with my mass of tangled curls and ending with the worn leather boots on my feet—been meaning to get a new pair, but it takes time to find just the right pair (not that I'd been looking particularly hard anyways).

"How are yah, darlin'?" It's said casually but warily, like she expects me to fall apart in her arms and sob like a seven year old who just lost their dog. Thanks, but I've already moved past that stage. At least I'm pretty sure I have. I idly wonder if I'm allergic to airplane peanuts because I don't remember my tongue being quite this big.

I clear my throat forcefully and shift my gaze so that I'm looking at a freckle just left of her eyebrow. "Fine."

I get the 'I understand nod' and another hug. I clear my throat and tell myself that I'm playing this cool.

"So, uh, can I go to the restroom now, or do I have to drink some holy water first?" Ellen chuckles and I'm sure Bobby is grinning, but unfortunately I don't have eyes in the back of my head. Even if I did it wouldn't help though, wouldn't be able to see anything past my hair—or at least what I refer to as hair, but speculate is probably something along the lines of Devil's Snare.

I find the bathroom, which just like the rest of Bobby's bachelor pad, is clean, but in need of some redecorating. Redecorating which would include the demolition of three walls, new paint, new tile, and well…new everything.

I stroll out of the bathroom feeling immensely relieved, and head in the direction the murmur of voices is coming from.

"I don't think that's a good idea, she's—" Ellen stops speaking when I walk in the room and neither of them is willing to look at me, great. I just _love_ it when people talk about me.

"So…how was your flight?" I decide to play along because I really need a nap before I start any grave—serious conversations

"You mean _flights_, plural, and they were boring in the extreme. I'd have rather drove; but well, that transatlantic road is still in the planning phase." They nod and an Elle smiles like it's fascinating and funny.

"Angie, why don' you go 'head and catch some shut eye. We can catch up later."

Ah, the considerate host routine. I know they just want me out of the way so they can finish arguing, or discussing, or _whatever_; and usually I'd stay just to spite them. However, after sitting upright for too many hours with a snoring insurance salesman whose name I don't know, nor do I want to, in my lap I think I deserve a decent catnap. In fact, I'm fairly certain I may _need_ said nap.

Feeling like a kindergartener, and hoping for milk and graham crackers, I wander into the depths of Bobby's abode. Navigating the book-lined hallway (_does the man not understand the concept of bookshelves?_) carefully I make it to the guest room without disturbing a single dust mote.

-

Old army surplus mattresses from, possibly, the first World War can't really be considered 'comfy.' They beat my worn out sleeping bag—which I kindly abandoned in a rubbish bin before I left—hands down, anyways. It's not like I'm unused to uncomfortable sleeping conditions. My definition of heaven was a King mattress that I sat on once in one of those furniture stores; okay, that's an exaggeration, I know there's more to heaven than comfy mattresses and chocolate sundaes, but those better be included.

My neck makes a popping noise when I turn my head to the left, it repeats the noise when I turn it to the right. The last doctor I talked to said it was normal that pretty much all my joints crack, but it still freaks me out. I stroll into the kitchen, where I find the adults—I'm supposed to be one too, but apparently there's a test I've yet to pass—seated on opposite sides of the kitchen table eating…something I'm not even remotely interested in. Did I mention that I hate liver; in fact, it may very well be my kryptonite. Wait, no, that's black licorice; my taste buds shudder at the thought.

Forgoing politeness, since I'm still being considered a child I might as well act like one, I head to the fridge. I pull the handle hoping to find something besides baked beans and beer; well I lucked out, there's both _and_ mayonnaise. Deciding that I'm not really that hungry—airplane peanuts must expand—I close the door and lean back against it.

Bobby looks unapologetic as he says, "Haven't been to town to stock up in a while, sorry."

I shrug, "No big." Then turning to look at Ellen's profile. "So when's the…thing," vague gesture, it takes me a minute to remember the words. "You know, the funeral," I say the words to prove to them that I can say them, that I'm fine; but they come out a bit squeakier than I intended.

The look I get is a sympathetic one, but she keeps the feeling out of her response. "We'll have to go down tomorrow and do it, we weren't really planning anything big."

Figured, probably weren't many people coming, anyways. "Did you get ahold of—" I just giver her a look not even bothering to say the name. She nods puckering her lips in thought.

"He's busy in Tulsa." I snicker and ignore the anger that boils up every time I even think about my father or, rather, the donor. It's pretty much the same feeling I get when I think about the incubator.

"I talked to Gramps, he said he'll be there." She nods and looks thoughtful.

"I haven't seen Charles in years, how's he doin'?" Bobby's got that far-off look in his eyes, probably thinking back to the first time Gramps and him crossed paths. Gramps loves that story; probably because it stars a rookie by the name of Robbie Singer, who didn't know a .45 from a twelve gauge.

"He's good, retired. Well, _mostly_ retired. About as retired as any of us'll ever be." We share a mutual chuckle, but it's mirthless. We're all lifers.

"Are you gonna stick around after the service?" Ellen is studying me. She has always been such a beautiful woman, pretty much the only woman I've ever _known_. When she was younger, and me too, I used to beg Gramps to go to The Roadhouse so I could run around with Jo and just be around Ellen. I guess she's the only mother I've ever known, even though I don't consider her to be mine.

"I was actually thinking about going back to the UK, why?" Bobby and Ellen share a look. So this is what they were talking about earlier.

"Well there's been a major spike in demon activity in the last week, and with all those hunters killed when the bar burnt down, we could really use you here." I consider what I know of the situation, that a demon destroyed Harvelle's and that Ash died in the attack, and decide that I need to be fully apprised of what's been going on, because A and B just aren't connecting.

"What'd I miss?" They share a look again and begin to explain, taking turns in their respective narrations. By the time they're done I'm wondering why the name Winchester sounds familiar—for more than the obvious reasons—and why they're sitting here around a beat up old table eating _liver_ when there are demons out there needing a good ass kicking.

Then I remember, Ash.

"Alright, I'll stay, but there are a few things I'm gonna need to pick up." I pull out my cell phone, which has fewer functions than my EMF detector, and make a long distance call.

The surly British accent on the other end mutters a "'Ello?" and I smile because I obviously woke his lazy ass up.

"Will? I need a favor…" There's a deep rumbling chuckle.

"What else is new, love?" he stops, probably lighting up a death-stick, inhaling deeply. "What d'ya need?"

I tell him I need him to send me the things I left behind as quickly as possible, with minimal questions asked. He asks where to send them and Bobby gives me a P.O. box number. I hang up after he tells me I'm too much bloody trouble, quipping that I love him too just before I flip the phone closed.

I don't realize I'm smiling until I register the speculative, calculating, looks on the faces of two people I'd rather not explain William to.

"What?" I ask before I stride off in search of a scalding shower and a ride to the closest McDonalds.

-

Ash wasn't really a religious person. Said that he believed in God but didn't see the point in church. It was one of the few things we disagreed on. Standing next to his grave listening to a local priest talking about green pastures and heaven I can feel the burden of his death on my faith. I try and shake it off, reminding myself that it's always easier to believe when things are all sunshine and daffodils; but that it's having faith when the water is rising and your car is buried in the mud that's the true measure of belief.

There are only a few people present. I don't recognize the blonde in the back or the guy with her, the guy standing near Ellen looks familiar though I can't place him, but the sobbing woman standing parallel to me is hard to miss. She wears the pain like a blanket, it's so blatant and considering her age, it's obvious that she's Ash's mom. Considering that I've met her only a handful of times since Ash was born, I'm not sure what exactly I should do. I follow my instincts and hug her, she collapses into the embrace and I'm glad that I did it. There isn't anything to say to make her feel better, so I just hug her tighter. When she pulls back her eyes are red rimmed but she's smiling at me sadly.

"You're so much taller now, I haven't seen you since…" she pauses trying to think, then just shrugging and continuing, "Ash told me about the summer you spent together. I'm glad you two got a chance to know each other." She pats my cheek with a hand that's cold and I can't imagine how much worse this has to be for her.

"We had such a good time, Susan." I smile in memory, fighting back tears. She nods.

With one last hug and a brief tearful smile she walks away, back to her car. Everyone is filing away slowly and I look at the small group, searching for a familiar head of thinning grey hair. Ellen moves to my side, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. "Me an Bobby'll be at the truck. Okay, honey?"

She doesn't wait for an answer just squeezes and then strides away. I turn back to the hole in the ground. I've seen tons of graves, dug quite a few of them myself (mostly unburying bodies), but this grave looks different, or maybe it feels different. Trees, at the very edge of a small town cemetery, surround it; Ash would've scoffed and asked why he had to be buried in Nebraska of all places. Would've joked about being buried next to Ronnie Van Zant or at least put to rest somewhere a little cooler.

It's weird that I can still hear his voice.

He called me a couple weeks ago. I knew something was wrong because his jokes were even lamer than usual, but figured it was the usual problems; girls, hunting, or girls—it's surprising how many women actually like mullets, it's probably a residual effect from Joe Dirt. He didn't say anything about it; but then he never told me he was having problems when he was at MIT, either.

I stop myself before I can make myself feel guilty about his death, and trust me I'd have no trouble doing it. Pushing the 'what if's and 'I should have's away. Saying a quick goodbye and wiping away a few escaped tears I march away from the grave, my brother's grave.

If I was my brother's keeper, I guess I failed at that.

Notes: _(because I don't expect everyone to know what I'm talking about)_

As far as I know, the **Chadbury Chickens** are a purely fictional soccer team or football team, depending on culture.

**Elmira** is from Tiny Toons, she liked to hug/crush the cute fuzzy little animals. I send her my plot bunnies, but they multiply so fast…

**Devil's Snare** is a magical plant from Harry Potter—geek, yes, I know—that "_is composed of a mass of soft, springy tendrils and vines that possess some sense of touch. Devil's Snare uses its creepers and tendrils to ensnare anyone who touches it, binding their arms and legs and eventually choking them."_ It's a magical plant, which probably doesn't have any basis in nonfiction, but this is fiction. So no holds barred…

**Ronnie Van Zant** was the lead vocalist of Lynard Skynard, but died in a plane crash.

**Joe Dirt** is a comedy movie about a redneck guy with a mullet, starring David Spade.

Both the title and the short excerpt before Chapter 1 come from the amazing song "Send Me an Angel" by the **Scorpions**, which I don't own.

-

_Don't worry, the boys will be showing up in the next chapter. Just thought I'd let you all know since that's what you came for._

_And yes, this is that multi-chap OFC fic I've been promising, but have been too afraid to post. Blame feralpixc she never sent me the beta so I just figured it was crap._

_Hugs beta I love you anyways._

_I don't know how updates are gonna be, I'm not exactly known for my consistency, but I'll try to update at least once a week._

_Unless everyone thinks it sucks, In which case I'll hide in my room and rewatch the first season until I feel better._

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Reviews are the gold at the end of my rainbow!


	2. Far From the Shore

-

Disclaimer:

I do not own Supernatural.

Though, if I did there would be a serious shirt-shortage

and I'd be living in Dean's jacket.

-

Warning:

This chapter contains quite a bit of foul language

and several bad attempts at humor.

Consider yourself warned.

-

**- Chapter **2 -

- Far From the Shore -

_Part of me says let it go  
Everything must have a season  
Round and round it goes  
And every day's the one before_

-

The get-together following the funeral service would've been enough to _bore_ Ash to death. He was _the_ best person to party with because he just didn't care, didn't let other people stop him from having a good time. I remember this stupid frat party we crashed after he got booted from MIT where Ash actually did the robot and people thought it was cool. Then there was this time in Denver in this yuppie's bar Ash managed to dig up some B.O.C., he nearly gave this old guy a heart attack he was laughing so hard at my brother's moves. Somehow I just don't think sitting in a bar eating and talking is the way Ashley—yeah_, Ashley_; let's just say Susan watched Gone With the Wind one too many times—would've liked to be remembered.

I get up and move to the jukebox. Ash liked Charlie Daniels but the band wouldn't have made it on his memorial playlist. I push a few buttons and hope the queue is relatively short. I'm moving back across worn floorboards when the door to the bar—a small out of the way place with a few too many dead animals on the wall—swings open, flooding the planks with white sunlight.

Seeing who it is, I quickly redirect and stroll over—barely quashing the urge to run like a child. He looks older but he's like a Timex, he's gonna last damn near forever. He's wearing worn flannel that probably smells like wood-smoke and thick soled steel-toed boots, looking every bit a redneck lumberjack if it weren't for his sparkling eyes and boyish face. A grin that's so big it folds the skin at the corners of his mouth, spreads across his face and his arms open, I'm reverted back to a six year old in pigtails with that one gesture and I all but skip the few remaining feet. I sigh into the rough fabric of his shirt as he enfolds me in a hug.

"How are yah, Angel?" It's the same burr a grizzly has, he's the same ornery old bear he was two years ago. I breathe deep the scent of pine and Old Spice, and I feel like I really have come home.

"I'm good, sir." He pulls me back and eyes me, his left eye squinted slightly—it never was the same after that feral demon tried clawing his face off. He nods, eyes still traveling. His gaze stops and he peers at me from beneath his eyebrows, watching for the reaction to his next statement.

"The food must be shit in England, yah look like a strong wind could blow yah away." I laugh and shake my head in the negative, Gramps has been desensitized by too many years of robust diner waitresses and now thinks all women should be shaped like pears.

"Nah, Gramps, the food is shit in Scotland." He chuckles and gestures to a table.

"Why don't we order something to eat and catch up?" I know it isn't really a request, his questions are usually thinly veiled orders, but I don't plan on refusing.

I gather up my nearly empty soda and messenger bag from the seat at the bar and settle into a booth in the back. Gramps is up at the bar getting a couple of brews—even though I'm not much of a drinker, it's his way of showing that he respects me as an adult and a fellow hunter, I'll down the bitter liquid with a smile—and ordering something greasy, no doubt.

I watch as he makes his way across the room with that swaggering confidence that I've never been able to mimic. Holding a pair of bottles, he stops briefly to chat with a few old acquaintances as the opening rift of a Lynard Skynard song plays in the background. Ash always said "Free Bird" was great but overplayed at funerals, I played it because it makes me laugh to imagine the grimace on his face. Ash pretty much thought Lynard Skynard was the only band worth listening to, not that I disagree, but I acknowledge that there's more than Southern rock in the world.

Gramps finally makes it to the table and he sits down with a loud exhalation of breath. Glancing at me from the side he smiles quirkily, blue eyes—something I didn't inherit, unfortunately—sparkling brightly beneath bushy eyebrows that resemble puffy clouds poised on the horizon of his forehead. He's laughing with me internally because we're both thinking the same thing: _Man, he's gettin' old._

"So how was the huntin' across the pond?" It isn't a need to break the silence that prompts the question, but actual interest. I laugh leaning back into the vinyl seat, mind racing back to my childhood spent in much the same fashion.

"Good, you would not believe how massive the pixie population is, though." They might not be the scariest of creatures, but they weren't exactly easy to get rid of either, kinda like cockroaches.

"You spent two years hunting fairies?" He's laughing at me, with me, and pitying me in one sound: a warm chuckle that rumbles up from the deep. Of course, he would know that I'd been bored me to death hunting the same thing repeatedly.

"Mostly; I got a couple werewolves, a banshee, and even a few possessions." He sips his beer, grinning into the lip of the bottle. We don't make light of what we do, West's take our responsibilities very seriously, but sometimes laughter is the best way to cope with something.

"What about you, Gramps?" I wait until he's taking a swig of his beer, timing is everything. "Been catching up on your knitting?" He inhales sharply and chokes a little, but once he stops gagging and beating on his chest he laughs heartily.

"Yeah," he looks me square in the eye, "the cabin is covered in doilies, can't see the couch beneath 'em all; and that's without the embroidery." His faux sincerity makes the statement that much funnier. My cheeks ache, picturing Gramps' "hunting lodge" covered in frills, and my mind races to come up with a good retort.

"That what made you late, had to finish your latest cross-stitch?" I'm smiling so hard my jaw is aching and my chest is heaving with pent up laughter.

"Nah, actually," his gaze is serious but he's still smiling, "I got caught in that storm on my way through the pass." I nod, remembering how hard it was to navigate the Appalachians. His face sobers,"How was the service?"

"It was good, standard, really." I'm bobbing my head as I speak, nodding at thin air, somehow unable to meet his gaze. Searching for something to say, I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. "Richard is doing a job in Tulsa."

The silence that follows his huff of irritation is filled with the arrival of two burgers that almost stretch off their plates, ringed with a pile of golden French fries. Gramps gives the waitress a smile I've seen a million times before, it doesn't matter that she's probably younger than me or that he doesn't actually have any interest in her. The West secret weapon is charm, it's a weapon I have yet to master, and it's oozing from his expression. The waitress asks if we need anything else, Gramps shakes his head, and she scurries off blushing.

He leans back in his seat, sending me a self-assured grin—I can tell he's rejoicing in the fact that 'he still has it.'

"Ellen's convinced me to stick around and work here for a while." I dip a few golden potato sticks into some ketchup while I say it.

He looks up from his burger to ask wryly, "She twist your arm?"

I'm smiling and shaking my head. "Not really, gettin' tired of pixies and leprechauns anyways." His teeth, he still has most of them, sink into his burger, "I'm waiting for my gear to get here in the mail, and then I gotta run down to Missouri and grab my stuff outta storage." I take a moment to savor my own artery-clogging sandwich.

"You got wheels?" He takes a swig from his bottle, and I pause to wipe ketchup off my cheek with a paper napkin.

"Yeah, I left Ash the Pontiac, and it's still in the parking lot. Needs some work; Lord knows, Ash didn't know a fan belt from a radiator." I laugh at my own joke, playing with my salty fries.

"He was a good boy," Gramps looks upward, mentally sifting through his memory, "not much of a hunter, if I remember. But he was sharp." We share a smile of remembrance. Ash was sixteen when he went with us on his first hunt, he wasn't so bad at the research but during the actual operation he nearly shot himself in the foot.

"Yeah." I watch as his big hand wraps around the plastic container sitting next to the sugar packets and then lift it towards his plate. "You know that stuff is bad for your blood pressure, right?" Gramps stops, saltshaker poised over his own gargantuan pile of potatoes.

"You only live once, Angel." I smile, remembering. That's pretty much the West family creed in a nutshell.

"Charles," Bobby announces his presence in the form of a greeting and I continue eating while they shake hands. Gramps invites Bobby to pull up a chair, which he does and the two start talking about fishing. Gramps is in the middle of a story—the one about me and my Snoopy fishing pole—when Ellen strides over.

"Angie, got someone here who has been dying to see you." I look away from Ellen to a petite blonde that's standing off to the side. It's the girl from the cemetery, but up close I recognize her immediately. I'm out of my seat in a matter of seconds.

"Oh my god, _Joey_?" I exclaim as I hug her fiercely, no doubt restricting airflow, and I barely hear her as she laughs and tells me not to call her _that_. I can see Ellen smiling at us both. It's a wonder I didn't recognize her, she's looks nothing like the dirt-covered tomboy I ran around with. We both pull back and smile at each other. I insist that she joins me, scooching into the corner of the booth so she can sit down.

"How are you?" Her brown eyes are slightly puffed around the edges, a sure sign she's been crying.

I reply, "good. You?" She smiles.

"I'm hunting now." I force a smile and congratulate her, but I look to Ellen over her head—she looks slightly lost, but the expression clears quickly.

"There are some people I'd like yah to meet, honey." She pauses gesturing to my food, "once you're finished eating, of course." I nod in response.

"Ellen," Gramps voice cut our conversation off and smoothly redirected Ellen's attention. I took the opportunity to catch up with an old friend.

"So, how have you been?" She fiddles with my empty soda can, twisting the pop top around and around, I wince once I realize that I've already asked that question. I'm not exactly a skilled conversationalist.

"Fine," she watches her fingers intently and I know she's bullshitting. "I'm gonna miss him." She looks up from the corner of her eye and this time it's my turn to avoid eye contact.

"Me too."

"I mean he was like a brother to me, yah know?" I nod because I _do_ know. I look at my half-eaten hamburger and decide I'm not hungry anymore.

"So, do you know who your mom wants me to meet?" I think the change of subject is rather tactful.

"I'm not sure, but I have an idea or two." Her head turns, wonderfully straight hair sliding smoothly with the movement, and she nods towards her mom. I follow her gaze and see a pair of guys talking to the older Harvelle. One of them is majorly tall, but he tries to hide it by tucking his hands into his pockets and slumping over, he's utterly adorable with his floppy hair and lack of facial hair. The shorter one wears his skin as if it's a worn t-shirt, totally comfortable; he has the appearance that made James Dean so famous: aloof, cool, _trouble_.

"Who are they?" We're both still looking at them, but when I glance at Jo I can see that she only has eyes for Mister Dean, and the look she's giving him is more than lustful.

"Dean and Sam Winchester." There's that name again, it tickles something in the back of my mind, but whatever memory it is darts out of reach before I can grasp it. I don't even have to ask whether or not they're hunters, the way they carry themselves says it all, even Bigfoot can't hide that kind of vibe.

"Why d'you think your mom wants me to meet them?" She shrugs and turns back towards me.

"I'm guessing it's probably because they knew your brother." It makes sense, but it doesn't feel like it's the right answer. Ellen is planning something and my instincts are telling me it's something more than a simple introduction.

I motion for Jo to stand so I can slide out of the booth and make my way across the room. Jo stops next to me at the bar and I look to the giant, flashing my sweetest smile.

"Hi," dark eyes catch on my face from beneath a thick fringe of hair, "I'm Angie, Jo says you knew my brother."

(Notes:)

**Ashley**: There is no proof that this is actually his name, but I'm sadistic and've probably watched Gone With the Wind too many times, once was enough. If you don't know, Ashley was Scarlet's love interest (though, why I have no idea) in the movie.

**Timex** is a watch that "Takes a lickin' and keeps on tickin'."

**James Dean** Rebel Without a Cause, good movie. The movie did so well because James Dean had this great portrayal of all that is "bad boy" with his Levis and his leather jacket. I like the irony that they have the same name, somewhat.

**Santana**: the lyrics and the chapter title come from the Santana song "Just Feel Better."

-

Okay, I know Jo is in this chapter, but don't worry she won't become a main character. I apologize for any and all errors, this chapter was un-beta'd, just like the last one, so I'm pretty much wandering around in the dark. The boys will actually speak in the next chapter. Sorry the chapters are so short but, generally, that's how I work.


	3. Off the Beaten Path

-

Disclaimer:

I do not own Supernatural.

Though, if I did there would be a serious shirt-shortage

and I'd be living in Dean's jacket.

-

Warning:

This chapter contains quite a bit of foul language

and several bad attempts at humor.

Consider yourself warned.

-

**- Chapter 3** -

- Off the Beaten Path –

_And the earth becomes my throne  
I adapt to the unknown  
Under wandering stars I've grown  
By myself but not alone_

"Hi," dark eyes catch on my face from beneath a thick fringe of hair, "I'm Angie, Jo says

you knew my brother."

"I'm Sam," he holds out one huge hand, I shake it lightly. "Ash was your brother?" His brows draw down toward the bridge of his nose and he looks sincerely sorry. I study his eyes, which are slowly changing from brown to the color of the forest, moss green mixed with specks of blue and brown bursting outward from the black pupil.

"Yeah, he was." My smile wanes. I nod dumbly, withdrawing my hand from his; our calluses sliding roughly against each other. My eyes focus on the freckle on the slope of his nose and my smile returns.

"I guess you could say I knew him," he bows his shoulders, coming down to my level, and it makes him look awkward. "I only saw him a handful of times, but he was a good guy." I deliberate on making a crack about how large a handful was for him, but decide now isn't the time, not when he's being so sweet and utterly _earnest._

"Angie, these are the—" Ellen steps into the conversation with ease, the rough edge of her voice standing out amongst the chatter.

"—Winchesters, yeah I know." Ellen looks at me balefully and I smile, for someone who didn't like smart alecks she sure knew a ton of them. "Joey gave me the quick and dirty version." The guy, I'm guessing is Dean, smiles in wicked amusement at that.

"_Joey?"_ Sam is smiling widely, revealing a set of stunning teeth that contrast sharply with his golden complexion, and looking at Jo. Amusement is dancing in eyes that have lightened considerably.

"_Sammy?_" Jo quirks a brow and her smile is victorious as Sam looks chagrined. _ Ah, the wonder of the nicknames we hate._ Personally, I hate being called Angel, but I can't get Gramps to cut it out. I suppose it's a familial right, but you would think they could be more inventive.

While those two are laughing in what I assume is mutual distaste for their respective names, I extend a hand to the other guy. His hand meets mine and his fingers close tight around my fingers, bringing my palm in contact with his—it feels far more intimate than a handshake should.

"Hi, Dean, right?" I shake his hand softly, feeling the smooth slide of his skin across mine, every cell in my body shudders internally and I pull my hand away more forcefully than is polite. "It's nice to meet you." He gives me the look I've been getting from guys since I got boobs in eighth grade.

He's gorgeous and he has freckles, must be genetic. Only his aren't the round brown spots that his brother and I—unfortunately—possess, but the small golden ones that can only be seen upon closer inspection. His hair isn't as dark as his brother's but there are several striking features that they share; a strong nose, defined chin, and did I mention the _eyes_? I totally adore his eyes, though it's probably partially because I think anything is better than my own brown irises. I take one look at his lips and decide it'd be best if my mind didn't stray too far down that path.

"The pleasure is all mine." The guy definitely has charm, in spades, but there's this underlying flicker of vulnerability. My Gramps always said I had an uncanny ability to read people, but somehow I don't expect Dean is someone who likes to be read. I respond to his cocky smirk with an amused and, I'll admit, a slightly uncomfortable smile.

Ellen is watching our interaction with a look of satisfaction, and I've been watching her from the corner of my eye. I quickly decide that enough pleasantries have been exchanged and it's time to take the upper hand.

_Catch the enemy off guard, the element of surprise is your ace in the hole_, Gramp's voice rings in my head as I turn to the elder Harvelle. My smile is saccharine, it's false.

"So, Elle, you gonna tell me what you're up to or am I gonna have to get creative, I think I have some Sodium Pentothal in my bag." Her lips immediately tilt downwards and she tries to give me that wounded, indignant, look that only parents can achieve.

"Don't forget who you're talking to, young lady." I haven't been young for quite a long time and I'm pretty sure I've never been a lady, much to my Grandma's distress. She was an old-fashioned Southern belle, and I've always been a tomboy. I clearly remember the smell of her perfume as she leaned over me to scrub off whatever I had caked on my face at the time, clicking her tongue in the way only she could.

"Oh I haven't forgotten, that's why I'm asking." I know how tricky the older hunters can be. Hell, the fact that they're still alive means that I have reason to be wary, especially when it's my life they're meddling in.

I watch as she visibly shifts gears, going from defensive to obtuse in 2.5 milliseconds. "And what makes you think I'm up to anything?" I arch my eyebrow and send her a mental message. _You don't fool me_.

"You mean besides the hushed conversations, the conspiratorial whispering, and this quaint little social gathering?" Her expression denies knowledge of any such activities. "Instinct. Prey knows when it's being hunted."

She quickly changes tactics once again.

"It's not like I'm plotting murder, Angela," she pauses to draw in a deep breath and search for the right words, "just arranging a cooperative movement." The moment the words are out of her mouth I know exactly what she's trying to do: trying to set me up. Again. Right after I started working by myself she tried convincing me to find a partner, someone to 'watch my ass'—that particular conversation rolled over as well as a ship in a storm, and with about as many casualties.

"Oh, no." She may be stubborn, but I'm a West: we're pretty much synonymous with intractable. "No. I work alone, in case you've forgotten."

She's giving me this look and for a moment I'm curious about what she's thinking because for once I can't tell. "What?"

She's about to answer when I decide that on second thought, I really don't want to know. "Never mind, thanks for the suggestion, but no thanks."

Bobby must have ambled on over because he's suddenly behind me. "Angie, come on, be reasonable."

"Reasonable?" I act like I've never heard the word before and have absolutely no idea what it could possibly mean.

"They're just trying to keep you safe, sweetheart, and Robert says these boys are good at what they do. What could it hurt?" Oh great, now it's three to one, Gramps is the last person I expected to turn traitor.

"You want me to work with _them_?" I look to each of the adults for confirmation, and then inspiration strikes. I need allies and I'm betting I have a pair. "Who says _they_ want to work with me?"

I look into each individual set of hazel eyes but neither offers an ounce of help. Sam looks like he's actually considering the idea and Dean looks like he's enjoying my distress too much to say anything, though I'm betting behind that smile he agrees one hundred percent. "No, and especially not with people I don't even _know_."

"We could work together." I turn to Jo and fight the urge to hug her; I hope she knows how grateful I really am. My mind races, weighing arguments and quickly tossing them away once I realize that none of them are airtight.

"No, you're still an amateur Joanna." Ellen dismisses the suggestion with barely any consideration, her words stiff.

I'm not ready to back down yet. _Never admit defeat, admit to setbacks and mistakes, but never defeat._ "All the better, I can help her learn." I look to Gramps, hoping he'll agree. I helped train Ash and I have years of experience, he knows this. His blue eyes are blank, nothing.

"Yeah and neither of us would be alone." Jo looks at me and then at her mom—says she's on her own but still looking for approval. She isn't ready.

"I said no." The words are clipped sharp, edges sticking out haphazardly.

"But—" I can tell my defense is floundering and it's time to abandon ship or risk drowning.

"No, never mind. It doesn't matter because I don't want to work with anyone." With those _final_ words I stride out of the bar hoping to get some fresh air and a chance to regroup. I need to think, to make plans and to generate a few counterarguments, if not map out an escape route.

-

_Oh hell._ I knew it, I damn well knew it. Should've listened to my instincts, but _no_.

I glare at a tree, wishing that I was telekinetic so I could destroy the damn thing and make myself feel better. No sooner does the thought process than the tree-hugging hippie in me starts to mount a protest, the small voice is silenced with a lethal internal stare of fury. It's not like I could actually _do_ it.

I'm pacing like I'm on a conveyor belt, a slow road to no where. It's times like this I wish I had a bad habit to release some stress, I'd take up smoking but I'm too _damn_ practical. There's all that cancer and lung damage to worry about; and if I'm gonna die, it damn well better be in a blaze of glory not as the product of some stupid addiction.

I kick a large stone across the parking lot with a small measure of satisfaction.

I can say no. I can, damn it. I'm an adult and no one—not Ellen or Bobby or that Benedict Arnold I call my grandfather—can make me do anything I don't want to.

I hunt alone.

"Not like I'm some green fucking rookie for God's sake," I think for a moment that I might be getting somewhat hysterical before a soft warm voice breaks my stride, literally. I almost trip over my own feet in surprise.

"Hey." I glance up from the crushed gravel to find a pair of sympathetic hazel eyes. Oh damn, they sent the Eagle Scout to recruit me.

"Listen," I point at him and attempt to tone down the defensiveness. "It's nothing personal, okay, but I work alone." I pause and use a hand to push my bangs out of my face, a gesture chalk full of frustration. "God, I sound like the veteran cop in a cheesy action flick." I mutter to myself, huffing in frustration, for a lack of anything better to do.

"Does that make me the silly sidekick slash comic relief?" He's smiling and giving me this look, the 'I want to be your friend if you'll let me' look. Damn, but he's good. I've seen hunters twice his age that never reached the level of soothing he possesses in a single inflection. He has the bedside manner of angels. I just hope his persuasive skills are crap or, between those soulful eyes and his smile, I'm so screwed.

"This sucks royally."

"It's funny; Dean said pretty much the same thing."

"Yeah, well he seems to be the only person who agrees with me," _even if he didn't _say_ so_.

He chuckles dryly. "Dean isn't exactly _agreeable_." I'm assuming that the argument had continued after my hasty retreat, only it was one of the Winchesters arguing in my stead.

We lapse into silence. He's standing tall a few feet away, looking like a human tree that accidentally got planted in the parking lot; and I'm staring off into space, eyes partially focused on where the road disappears around a curve.

"How far do yah think I could make it before they tracked me down?" I nod my head at the horizon and hear his chuckle. The question was only about thirty percent serious and seventy percent derision. He doesn't answer.

"Angel, I'd like a word." I wince at the tone, all gravelly and full of authority. The tone is that of a man who has seen one too many battles for his peace of mind but is determined to see his family safe, even if he has to bark out a few orders to do so.

"_Shit_." I mutter the word reflexively and turn once more to Sam. "Exactly how stubborn is your brother?"

"He's like a mule." His smile is fond.

"Damn it," I sigh as I walk by him towards the man waiting for me. "We're all screwed."

-

In the end, I actually spent more time convincing the elder Winchester to let me come along than I did arguing about hunting solo. To summarize, it came down to money. I had it and they needed it, so I said I'd pay for half of everything, Sam threw in a couple of pleading looks, and the deal was done.

I've had to listen to Dean whine for twelve hours straight—not even the most gorgeous eyes in the world can make up for that—about the delay before we could go anywhere, but I congratulate myself. I managed not to kill him. I guess those anger management sessions in high school really did have a lasting impact. I'm sure my lack of readily available deadly weapons contributed heavily as well.

It didn't even matter to him that we hadn't yet found a job. Though not for lack of trying, the amount of time Bobby, Sam, and I spent looking for suspicious—possibly supernatural—activity only pales next to the amount of time it took to build the Great Wall.

By the time the cardboard box, marked kitchenware, finally arrived I was close to going completely mad. Going to that post office to pick up my pair of nine mills and other assorted toys was totally worth the too loud Black Sabbath during the drive. Strapping on my gun belt and feeling truly comfortable since the last time I removed the silver handled Glocks, I found myself actually smiling as I got back in the car.

If I'd have known how much the trip down to Missouri was going to tax every self restraint I had I'd have probably bailed right then. I suppose this short drive was really a preview of what was to come, but it definitely wasn't something I was prepared for. Dean was sulky as a five-year-old who'd had his television privileges revoked, Sam was trying to improve upon the awkward situation by making conversation about the scenery, and I was still licking my wounds and in no mood to socialize. The latent hostility was just waiting to bubble over.

Shit hit the burner and started smoking in the middle of a truck stop.

I finally snap under the strain of being polite to a near perfect stranger and just out right ask, "What the fuck is your problem?"

"What's _my_ problem?" What an ass, implying that I'm the one who is whacked in the head when he can't even decide where the fuck he wants to get a cheeseburger.

"Yeah, you haven't spoken more than two words to me since you quit complaining and now you want to row about which burger joint we should have lunch at?" The fact that burgers are pretty much the same everywhere must not be common knowledge. To say I'm incredulous that this is what he finally chooses to argue over would be an understatement. This is why I work alone, I don't like people, and people generally don't like me.

"Well excuse me if I don't agree with you," I gape at him in outrage.

"I don't care where we eat for fuck's sake," I gesture wildly, "I just don't understand what's _wrong_ with you."

His gaze narrows, trying to pin me with his stare. "There's nothing wrong with me, bitch." The words barely escape past his clenched teeth. I consider decking him, but figure I probably deserve it.

"I call bullshit." We glare at each other silently and I vaguely notice Sam approaching.

"What the hell?" His eyes take in our stiff postures and angry stares and he rolls his eyes heavenward. "I leave you guys alone for less than five minutes and…"

"Stay out of this Sam." Dean holds up a hand, cutting his brother off.

Apparently, Sam is more insistent than I gave him credit for, "Dean…"

The anger has pretty much drained out and I'm left feeling tired. I throw up a hand as I walk back to the car. "Whatever, I don't have to deal with this."

"Dean, what happened?" Sam is trying to talk softly so I won't hear him, but all the car windows are down.

"Nothing, Sammy. Must be that time of month." His voice is as tired as mine. I recognize the fight for what it is, we're both pissed off that we got railroaded into doing something neither of us wanted to do. Doesn't mean I forgive that asshole for behaving like a jerk.

"Uh, huh; and you had nothing to do with it?" I can picture Sam's expression and it makes me smile, he's a pretty decent guy.

"Dude, I'm so not in the mood for 'sharing and caring' alright." I can hear Dean replace the gas pump nozzle and cap the tank before he circles the car and climbs in. "This is going to be one long ass trip."

Sam shakes his shaggy head in disbelief and slams his door closed. The only sound for the next fifty miles is the melody of Metallica thrumming through the speakers.

-

It takes me a while to find the key in my bag, I packed it just in case, but it must've moved to the very bottom. My fingers brush against soft cotton and rough denim as I fish around in my bag for the small piece of metal. I finally pull the dang thing free and turn to see Dean leaning back against the side of his car and Sam studying the worn out sign. In faded red paint, "Rick's Self Storage" is printed in bold block letters.

I move to unit number six and insert the key into the gleaming padlock. The door sticks and I have to shove it open with my shoulder. It's a pretty small space, about the size of a closet and it smells musty with old dirt and moisture. Light floods the entire space, rays bouncing off a gleaming silver dagger and polished gun barrels. There's a table set up against the back wall covered in boxes of ammo, sheathed knives and machetes, and in the old military surplus footlockers I know there are crossbows, swords, tepid holy water, old ID's, and a ton of other stuff. I walk to the table and grab a box of ammo for my 9 millimeters, then I turn to look at everything else. Sam's eyes meet mine. I shrug, it was pretty much my entire life before I left.

"I'm not sure what I'll need, exactly," I open the closest footlocker and reach inside for my sword. It was what I'd used to hunt vampires the one time me and Gramps had found a nest, it had better range than a machete.

"Is there anything you guys don't have?" Sam was looking at me in wonder.

"No, we have almost everything." Sam moved back so Dean could stride in. His eyes raked over the collected instruments. "But we only have two of a few things and it never hurts to have extra." If I didn't know better I'd say his look was one of respect.

"Okay, so I'll grab ammo. There's some rock salt in that box," I motioned to the box behind Sam, the room was pretty cramped with all three of us in there. Dean moved past his brother and grabbed the box, hefting it up with ease and striding out into the light. "I'll grab my .45 and twelve gauge, my throwing knives…" I started shoving things into one of the weapons bags I had in the room, listing items to myself as I went. I grabbed a couple of my fake badges, only the ones I figured were still good, and left the rest. Dean was reasonably amicable as we loaded the tools of my trade into the trunk.

Once finished with the weapons I opened the footlocker beneath all the others, extracting a worn suede jacket that I'd left behind. I draped it over my forearm and exited the storage unit. I replaced the padlock and with a resounding click turned to the boys, my new partners.

I shrugged on the worn black coat.

"Lets get to work."

_Carved upon my stone  
My body lie, but still I roam_

Notes:

­­­­­**Sam's eye color** to circumvent the many correction, as well meaning as they may be, I will say only this. They look hazel to me, in every picture and episode I've seen his eyes in, they look the same as Dean's. It's my personal opinion and it's how I choose to write them.

**Sodium Pentothal**, is also known as truth serum. An injection of said substance makes it extremely difficult to lie.

**Metallica **amazing band, responsible for the awesome lyrics at the beginning and end of the chapter, as well as the chapter title; all are from "Wherever I May Roam."

-

As you can tell, this is pretty much a filler chapter. We're gonna get down to business in the next one. It's bound to be interesting. As always, I apologize for any mistakes, they are my own.

Reviews are my Sunshine on a rainy day.


	4. Dreamweaver

-

Disclaimer:

I do not own Supernatural.

Though, if I did there would be a serious shirt-shortage

and I'd be living in Dean's jacket.

-

Warning:

This chapter contains quite a bit of foul language

and several bad attempts at humor.

Consider yourself warned.

-

- Chapter 4 -

_- Dreamweaver -_

_Though the dawn may be coming soon_

_There still may be some time_

_Fly me away to the bright side of the moon_

_And meet me on the other side_

-

Her face was serene as she gazed down upon him from her perch. Head tilted to the side, her lips curled lovingly. Painted eyes glowed eerily in the flickering light of many candles; she seemed pale and oddly luminescent in her blue robes. A lone hand moved in habit, crossing a thin body, and the priest rose from his position of supplication; leaving the statue of Mary standing in the quiet of the sanctuary. His passage around the pews made quietly as he makes his way into the back of the church.

It was late, emptiness making the stone hallway seem ominous. Each footstep and rustle of his robes echoed loudly off the dense walls. Shadows hung like draperies and there was only the moonlight gleaming dimly through the stained glass windows to light his way. The priest quickened his pace, pulling his robes close to his body. Shaking hands clutched his worn rosary, pressing the beads closely together and into his skin. His voice trembled as he began to recite the Lord's Prayer, hoping to dispel the fear coursing in his veins, breaths shuddering out of his body between verses.

"Lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil," and from out of the darkness a low keening noise rent the silence. The man froze mid step, his body as rigid as the statues in the sanctuary.

A moment of indecision and Father Michael moved towards the sound's origin. The door was heavy wood, but it swung open on well-oiled hinges. What the young priest saw in the seconds he stood in shock was enough to send him running down the hall, stopping only when the door to his own room was shut securely. The priest leaned back against the pine door, heart thundering in his chest, eyes closed tight; but the image was seared into his memory; red eyes.

Red eyes had glared out from the dark; there was a devil in the house of the Lord.

-

_Kansas City, Missouri_

_May 25, 2007_

The small café was packed to full capacity, but for the first time in a week it wasn't because it was the only place to eat within a hundred miles; it was because the food was pretty good. Not quite like grandma used to make it, but it beat Burger King hands down.

"Okay, so there've been two deaths at Our Lady of Grace in the past week," Angie looked up from her laptop to assure herself that she had both the Winchester's attentions. Sam was looking at her as he chugged some freaky triple heart-attack with extra foam, but Dean was buried ears deep in a short stack and didn't appear to have heard her. She was going to poke him and make sure he hadn't fallen asleep because drowning in maple syrup didn't sound like fun; but he came up for air on his own. Only now, she had to avert her gaze or she was going to choke on her water.

"How'd they die?" Sam asked as he set his cup down and reached for the stack of papers she'd compiled.

"Well, one died of heart failure and the other had a massive coronary." Dean gave her this look, which was funnier than it should've been since he had a sticky patch of golden syrup on his cheek, and she knew she needed to make her case and fast. "However, one of the other priests happened to look into Father Johnson's room the night he died and he said, and I quote, there was a devil in there with him."

Sam's eyes were traveling over the pages of information in his hands, paying particular attention to the highlighted areas and the notes in the margin. "So what do you think it is?" Dean pushed his plate away with one hand and lifted his coffee cup.

"I have a theory, but…" her voice trailed off. Sam put the stack down and gave her a level look. "I think it might be a Nightmare."

"A nightmare?" Dean waved the waitress down with a flirtatious smile and impatient hand gesture. Everyone waited while she poured more steaming black Columbia Roast into Dean's cup, Angie ducked behind her hand when the waitress spotted the patch of stickiness on his face. The petite blonde looked like she was considering whether or not to tell him when a big burly guy called out "Maggie," she smiled sweetly and scurried away. Angie shook her head in disgust when Dean's head tilted, finding a better angle from which to ogle the girl's behind. Sam cleared his throat, a rough sound accompanied by a pinched look.

"So anyway, Nightmares are sometimes called maras or mares. They're bringers of bad dreams, right?" Sam said it to get them back on topic more than to check information; nodding in agreement Angie looked from Sam to his brother, who was now frowning.

"Okay," Dean sent a quick glance to Sam before he leaned on the table, looking directly at Angie. "But explain to me how a few bad dreams can kill a person."

"Well, they aren't just dreams." One hand waved around in the air, searching for the right words to explain what exactly Nightmares did. "They're more like seriously realistic illusions; think: _Nightmare on Elm Street_." Dean's eyes lit with understanding, if all else fails use popular culture references.

Now for the million-dollar question, Dean looked to Sam; "Okay, so how do we kill it?"

"You don't," Angie cut in before Sam had a chance, "best you can do is trap it." Was it the cheap florescent lighting or did the elder Winchester appear disappointed?

"Which means of course that we have to catch it first," Sam's eyes were slightly glazed—his focus obviously trained inward—and Angie speculated that he was probably just thinking out loud. After a week's worth of study, Angie was no closer to understanding the Winchesters than she was the day she met them.

"Listen, Shaggy," Dean broke Angie from her observation and she focused her gaze on him in time to see him gesture towards her. "Velma, how bout you just cut to the end and tell me how." After only a few days, Angie had more than enough evidence to prove that Dean had ADD of some form.

"Whatever, _Fred_," her eyes rolled heavily but the mental picture of Dean wearing a little red neckerchief had her smiling. Shaking her head, she noticed Dean was giving her a strange look, "We're going to need a mirrored box."

He slumped back in his seat with a grimace, "Dude, I'm so not Fred." Obviously he thought a mirrored box was going to be easy to procure if he was changing the subject.

"Well you are more of a Scrappy," that earned her a glare but she couldn't help adding, "short and loud." Trying not to laugh at the stunned look on his face, she stood gathering her laptop and research into her messenger bag. "I'll meet you guys in the car."

"Who're you callin' short?" She grabbed the check off the edge of table; choosing not to answer the question, she slid a hand into her back pocket, fishing out her wallet.

"Dean, you have something on your face," running a finger over the spot on her own face she turned and walked to the cash register by the door.

Sam came out of his reverie in time to see Dean trying to wipe the syrup off his face with a napkin, only succeeding in getting pieces of paper towel stuck to his cheek in the process. Dean swore softly as Sam watched Angie pay the bill and head out the door.

-

"_Now Entering Kingdom City,_" the small-town sign whizzed passed as the Impala's engine purred out its song. Sam was driving, which meant that the ever present classic rock had been replaced with an assortment of alternative rock; music that Dean continually insulted, even when his foot was moving to the beat. Angie was in the passenger seat studying the road atlas, enjoying the breeze coming through the window, and singing along under her breath, glasses flashing in the sunlight. The first time Dean had seen the wire-rimmed specs, he'd made a big deal about her not being able to shoot if she couldn't fucking see. She'd calmly—loudly and with numerous swear words—explained the difference between nearsighted and farsighted. Sam made a comment about mouth gear (Angie had made a mental note to ask about that later) and Dean backed off, though it didn't keep him from snickering each time she slid them on.

The Chevy cruised slowly down Main Street so the hunters could get a good look at the town's layout. It was like most small towns, one long string of shops that ended abruptly with a park and then the town church. The house of worship stood tall above the rest of the buildings and most of the tress; the lone bell tower stretching upward, a thin brass cross jutting from the crown and shining in the afternoon sunshine. Unlike most small town church's, this church was made of dark stone. A sign out front proclaimed that this was Our Lady of Grace.

Brown eyes took in the church and the surrounding grounds, a graveyard and a playground, quirking a mental brow at the proximity of the two areas.

"I'm starving, lets grab some food and then head back to that hotel just off the Highway." Yet another tidbit she could add to her mental file on Dean Winchester, he was always hungry. Angie nodded absently, she didn't care where they went as long as they got out of the heat. The air was thick with humidity, making her skin sticky and her hair looked like she'd gotten a bad perm. Welcome to summer in the Midwest, she thought wryly as Sam pulled a quick U-turn and headed back towards the outskirts of town.

-

Father Daniels watched as the woman entered the sanctuary, setting down the candleholder he'd been dusting, noting the way she dipped her fingers in the basin and crossed herself like it was something she did every day. He smiled when she nudged the young men and motioned for them to do the same. She looked short next to the young men, who were probably her brothers; but she was of average build. None of them were dressed like they were planning on attending a service, but rather like they were there to look around.

Walking down the row between pews Father Daniels smiled in greeting. He stopped a few paces away from the trio. "Welcome to Our Lady of Grace. I'm Father Daniels, may I help you with something?" The young man in blue flannel went to speak, but the woman's voice interposed.

"Actually, Father, we're just visiting. I saw the church and talked these two into coming and taking a look around. I'm sorry if we bothered you." Angie smiled brightly while Sam and Dean glanced at each other over her head.

"The house of the Lord is always open." Father Daniels then waved a hand motioning to the interior of the church, "I could give you a tour if you would like, our church is humble but it has a long history."

Smiling Angie stepped forward, "I would like that, thank you." Not even glancing back to see if Dean and Sam followed she walked alongside the priest as he began to tell the story of the church's building and the subsequent fire that rendered it no more than rubble.

About an hour later Father Daniels was covering the most recent renovations to the church's structure when the name Angie had been waiting for came up. "Father Johnson headed the project himself," Angie stopped walking and the elderly man turned to look at her.

"Father Johnson? Where have I heard that name before?" Angie asked herself, the priest smiled kindly.

"He died recently, my dear; may he rest in peace." Father Daniel's weathered hand made the sign of the cross.

Angie's eyes widened, "that's right, it was in the paper. He died of a heart attack, right?" Nodding, Father Daniels started the trek towards the door. "But he was young wasn't he?"

"The Lord calls us all home when he wills it," a cloud of sadness passed across Father Daniels' aged face. "Father Michaels hasn't been the same since it happened."

"Were they very close?" When Father Daniels looked confused, Angie hurried to clarify, "Father Michaels and Father Johnson, were they close?"

"Oh, well of course, they both joined our church at about the same time."

"Father didn't another priest die a few weeks ago?" Sam stepped up behind Angie, startling her slightly with his sudden arrival.

"Yes, unfortunately, Father Keller; he was very ill."

"I thought he died of heart failure." Sam's brows drew downward, and Angie studied the aged priest's face as he responded.

"He did, but he'd been unable to sleep for several days and wasn't eating very well, the doctors think it was a severe case of Nervous Exhaustion which led to the heart failure." He said the words calmly, but Angie could see that the recent events had taken their toll. She almost didn't want to ask him anymore questions, but she had a job to do.

The concern in her voice wasn't faked when she asked, "How is Father Michaels doing?"

"He's fine, a bit shaken up, but fine. He insisted that he stay at the hospital for observation, even though the doctors said he was perfectly healthy."

"Well I'll be sure to pray for him, Father." Angie returned the priest's delicate smile and continued, "Thank you very much for the tour but I think it's time we got going."

"You're welcome, dear. Perhaps I'll see you on Sunday?" Faded grey eyes were so hopeful that she really didn't want to tell him no.

"If I'm in town Father, you can count on it." With one last smile she turned and followed Sam to the doors.

The priest called out, "May the Lord be with you."

Angie turned as she opened the heavy wooden door and looked at the weathered priest standing in the center of the church. She replied lightly, "And with you."

"So?" Dean drags the word out, she's slightly surprised he waited for her. She looks over at the parking lot where Sam is leaning back on the shining black hood of Dean's car. Angie sighs pushing her hair out of her face.

"We're going to the hospital." Dean nodded and they began the walk back to the Impala.

"Figured as much, what's our cover?" She stole a glance at him from the corner of her eye.

"Reporters?"

"Sounds good, better swing in Kinko's or, at least, whatever passes for a Kinko's in this town." Angie began to consider what paper she wanted to represent when Dean said, "God, I'm sweating like a pig." She watched him pull off his over-shirt and tug on his tee-shirt, it was the first time she'd seen him in only one layer of clothing outside of a motel room.

"Pigs don't sweat." When he gave her a blank look she clarified, "Pigs don't have functional sweat glands. Therefore you can't sweat like a pig, unless you're not sweating at all…" He'd physically stopped and was looking at her strangely. Ducking her head to hide her embarrassment, she apologized.

He shook his head ruefully and grinned, "Great, another walking talking encyclopedia of weird."

-

The press pass wasn't perfect, in fact if someone had ever seen one before it was pretty obvious that it was fake. However, when all one had to work with was her laptop and printer, an ancient copy machine, and a laminator that had seen much better days, it was the best one could hope for. It was just lucky for them that the nurse at the station had apparently never seen a press pass up close before.

Smoothing down her button-up shirt nervously, Angela followed Dean down the hall. Hospitals had always made her anxious. She didn't like them; they smelled like antiseptic and death, and they looked even worse. This particular hospital had tried painting the walls a pale blue, probably meant to be soothing, but the color seemed pallid. The very atmosphere seemed to leech out all optimism and cheer.

Following the signs posted on the walls Dean headed towards the elevator, Angie falling behind him. His long strides covered the worn linoleum quickly and Angie cursed his long legs as she struggled to keep up.

Sam had bailed on them at the drugstore, which also doubled as the copy shop, after he saw the sign for the town's library. He had gone to research whether or not there were any similar cases in the town's, or the surrounding area's, history. Dean had snickered while his brother walked to the old brick building saying that Sam in a library was like a Presley fan in Graceland.

The elevator smelled like oil, which was odd and gave Angie a slight headache, not to mention it moved slower than a bumper car. With a muffled buzzing noise, the lift halted and the doors slid open revealing a hallway just like the one they'd left. That was another problem with hospitals; without a map, getting lost was a foregone conclusion because they were built like labyrinths.

Following Dean and hoping he knew where the hell he was going, Angie studied the only interesting thing in her immediate line of sight. That thing being the elder Winchester's back and, thus, his ass. His shoulders were wide and his amazing leather jacket, she had no idea why he'd worn it when it was scorching outside, accented them. The fact that he wore his collar in the fashion of PI's in the old black and white movies was something she considered both funny and oddly fitting. The leather around the jackets seams was especially worn but that too was fitting; it was something the jacket and wearer had in common. Jeans that were worn in just enough to be comfortable without losing their color enclosed a nicely rounded posterior and long, bowed, legs coming to an end over a pair of faded steel toed boots.

Angie had a mind that often saw average things symbolically and each piece of his clothing was treated as a clue to the, thus unsolved, mystery that was Dean Winchester. He was well kept in a purposely-rugged sort of way; laid back while still emanating a self-assured aura; cocky without being annoyingly supercilious; and strong even though there was a vulnerability that clung at the edges of his eyes.

Angie knew that something was going on that the Winchesters weren't telling her. She had no idea what they were like usually, but there was a certain tension that underlined the looks the brothers shared and the words the brothers spoke. This made her wonder what exactly Bobby and Ellen hadn't apprised her about and why. Knowing that it couldn't be something that endangered her directly didn't stop her from wondering. It had to be something big, it usually was. It wasn't that she expected either of them to pour out their hearts, that kind of trust was going to take time to build, but her instincts said that it was something she needed to know for whatever reason—maybe to help and maybe just so she could be prepared.

Dean's abrupt change of direction broke her contemplation and Angie realized that they were in what was apparently the psych ward of Holy Oaks Hospital. The door stood open to the room, a sign that the patient was both voluntary and not a likely threat. Dean rapped a knuckle against the heavy door; the thunking caused the kneeling figure to raise his head. Angie and Dean were both pretty shocked at how young the priest was, he didn't appear to be older than twenty.

Notes:

**ADD** Attention Deficit Disorder, adults have been known to have it.

**Nightmares** I took a good bit of creative license with these "creatures," they don't usually cause death, but have been know as maras and mares.

**Catholicism**: I am not Catholic so if I got anything wrong, let me know.

**Pig Sweat:** it's true they don't have functional sweat glands, which I guess means that it started out as a joke and has totally morphed into an idiom.

-

A/N:

SORRY FOR THE WAIT! I know it's been forever, but I'm lacking a beta, the chapter didn't want to be written, school has been CRAZY! Way too busy. I apologize.

First things first, I've noticed that I make Dean more of a dork than some people might think he is (the pancake syrup, tipping his chair over, etc.) and I apologize, that's just the way I see him being sometimes. He's great but he is not perfect, and he is a bit of a dork sometimes.

I don't much care for this chapter and I planned on writing more, and I will next chapter or as a part two of this chapter, but I just want to get this out there so I can get started on the next part—which hopefully won't give me as much trouble. crosses fingers


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